


Scrambled Eggs and Banana Peels

by ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Final Fantasy XV Spoilers, Gen, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 18:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11363391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade/pseuds/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade
Summary: Don't let the goofy title fool you; the Episode Ignis teaser trailer absolutely gutted me, so I decided to unleash my pain and grief on everyone else. #sorrynotsorry An imagining of the events that took place immediately following the Hydraean catastrophe, but before Umbra delivers the notebook to Noctis. Focuses on Ignis' new optical reality, and is told through the eyes of Gladio.





	Scrambled Eggs and Banana Peels

**Author's Note:**

> I have no clue where the doctors are in this fic. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Maybe too busy helping the other civilian casualties to make an appearance? Who knows.

He isn’t in his bed when Gladio enters the dimly lit room; the big man’s eyes dart frantically from the empty sheets to the far wall, only allowing a small sigh of relief to escape him when he sees that the strategist’s lanky figure is neither tangled in a heap on the floor, nor dangling from the ceiling by a lamp cord, but settled into an ornate chair situated near a closed window.

 

 

The curtains are drawn slightly, enough to allow for a few paltry rays of sunshine from the otherwise grey and rainy Altissian skies outside to bleed through, but not so much as to overwhelm the strategist’s compromised senses. The doctors had said he might have some mild sensitivity to light, but that was before anyone knew the extent of his injuries; now that he was awake, it was clear  _mild sensitivity_  was a massive understatement—Ignis couldn’t even open his eyes properly, as helpless and feeble as a blind newborn Coeurl. 

_He might not be blind forever,_  Gladio thinks, as he strides across the luxurious throw rug blanketing the hardwood floor. It was too early to tell if the damage done to his friend’s sight was merely temporary, or whether his long-term prognosis was more grim; regardless, he makes it a point to drag his feet loud enough for Ignis to hear him approaching. “Made it out of bed by yourself without breaking your neck? That can’t be a bad sign.” 

The strategist has no discernible reaction when Gladio stops beside him. “I suppose not.”

“Prompto took a stab at scrambling some eggs, if you’re feeling up for a bite. I can’t make any promises on the quality, though.”

“I’m fine.”

Gladio fights back the urge to bark at him; his friend hadn’t consumed so much as a single bread crumb since he’d regained consciousness, and he had enough of an uphill battle to face without the added complication of self-imposed famine. “You gotta eat, man. Those beauty marks of yours aren’t going to heal without a little help.”

The strategist’s gaze is directed toward some indiscernible point out the window, his voice an eruption of utter monotony. “I said I’m fine.”

The big man sucks in an irritable breath and grimaces. “Suit yourself.”

“Any news?”

They were the first words that had passed through his lips when he awoke two days ago, and the same inquiry he had made at the top of every hour since, regardless of whether he was confined to his bed or being helped to the restroom on two shaky feet; Gladio glances down at him, wincing slightly at the sight of exposed muscles visible beneath the gaping wound that mars the left side of his friend’s face, and ponders briefly whether Ignis Scientia’s unwavering loyalty to the crown isn’t actually a result of him being a secret bastard son of the Amicitia family.

“Still out cold,” he murmurs.

The strategist nods solemnly; after a moment, he drops his chin to his chest and leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “All right, then.”

A quiet lull descends on the room. There’s not much to say, really, and with Noct comatose in his own bed twenty yards down the hall—and Prompto choking back sobs at the slightest change in the weather—the lack of any meaningful developments serves only to agitate Gladio’s growing sense of apprehension. He shifts anxiously from foot to foot, peering out the window at the thick droplets streaming down the paned glass, until the silence becomes downright deafening and he attempts to make one last appeal.

“You sure you won’t try to eat something? It’ll probably give Prompto something happy to cry about, for once.” When the strategist responds only with a small shake of his head, Gladio flares his nostrils and moves to leave. “Then unless you need something else, I’ve got better things to do than to stand around and watch you starve yourself to death.”

“Could use a bath.”

Ignis’ quiet voice halts his exit mid-stride; Gladio returns his gaze to the slumped form in the chair, noticing that the stubble dotting his friend’s cheeks and jaw has grown out to an uncharacteristic length. “I bet you could,” he says. “I’ll get Prompto to draw one for you—wait right here for just a minute.”

The strategist fingers his rough chin absentmindedly. “Where else would I go?”

The big man ignores the dull ache in his chest and steps out of the room, scanning the long baroque hallways of the estate for any sign of the blond marksman. It’s only when he pokes his head into the extravagant suite Secretary Claustra had reserved for their private use that he spots Prompto, not blubbering into his overcooked eggs like he expects, but staring down at the screen of his cellular through dead eyes.

“Yo, Prompto,” he calls out from the doorway. “Iggy’s up. Says he wants a bath.”

Freckled features glance up from the phone, and Gladio can see the traces of tears that stain his younger friend’s cheeks. “That’s good,” Prompto says, setting his mobile aside and injecting some semblance of positivity into his voice. “What do you need me to do?”

“Figured you could get the hot water running while I strip him down.” Gladio then moves back out into the hallway, the sharpshooter hot on his heels. “The doc took his bandages off last night to let ‘em air out, so prepare your stomach accordingly.”

The expression of shock that crosses the marksman’s features when they return to their friend’s side matches the horror trickling into in his own gut; as the prince’s sworn shield, Gladio was no stranger to the sight of gruesome flesh wounds—his own included—but it was going to take some time to get used to the newest additions to the strategist’s face.

Mercifully, Prompto covers his surprise with a false smile and rests a hand on Ignis’ shoulder. “How’s it hanging, buddy? You’re looking better every day.”

The strategist lifts a weak hand in response, and Gladio sends the blond man off in the direction of the on-suite bathroom with a quick jerk of his head. When he can hear the sound of water splashing against the ceramic tiles of the tub, he reaches over and tugs on the back of his friend’s collar. “Ready to get out of those stinking clothes?”

The strategist is wearing the same loose pants and tunic the doctors had dressed him in the night they had dragged his battered and bloodied body back to the estate; if the smell of dried sweat plastered to his back for two days straight wasn’t overpowering enough, the stench of festering wounds was almost certainly driving the usually fastidious chamberlain slowly toward madness. He rises tentatively from his chair, swaying momentarily until he steadies himself against Gladio’s broad shoulders, and utters a painful groan as the big man peels the grimy fabric of his shirt up and over his head.

It’s not his friend’s nudity that gives Gladio pause when he helps him out of his pants—the brotherhood practically took sport in seeing who could withstand the glacial temperatures of Greyshire Grotto’s waterfall in the buff the longest before heading out to Altissia—but he is only now recognizing that Ignis’ wounds are not limited to his face. Removing his wardrobe takes with it the thin layer of crust protecting the lacerations that encircle his torso and thighs, and suddenly an eyeful of naked flesh is the least of Gladio’s troubles.

“Prompto!” he shouts. “We need a towel over here.”

The marksman immediately trots out of the bathroom armed with a pile of bath sheets, and the strategist stands in stoic silence as Gladio wipes at the blood trickling down his leg. But Ignis’ trembling knee betrays the true agony his body is almost assuredly in, and it takes all of the big man’s willpower not to throw his injured friend over his shoulder to save him from the misery of walking the twenty or so paces to the bathroom under his own strength.

Instead, he wraps a clean towel around the strategist’s waist and grips him gently by the elbow. “Take it easy,” he says. “It’s a marathon, not a race—Altissia ain’t gonna crumble any further just ‘cause it takes you two extra minutes to reach the tub.”

Ignis opens his mouth to speak, but words elude him; Prompto’s eyes widen at Gladio as he moves to the strategist’s other side, although whether it’s from shock or admonishment, the big man isn’t sure. He doesn’t spend much time mulling over his tasteless turn of phrase, however, because it’s clear from their friend’s pained expression that his stamina is failing with every one of his strides; Gladio’s heart winces at each agonizingly slow step, until his ribcage reaches nearly to the point of bursting before the three men finally reach the threshold of the bathroom and the strategist's kneecaps meet the edge of the ceramic vessel.

“It’s a clawfoot tub,” Gladio says. “About eighteen inches high. Watch your step.”

“As best I can,” Ignis replies sourly.

This time, there is no ambiguity in Prompto’s exasperated glare; Gladio brushes off the younger man’s disapproval as Ignis finds his footing, then helps lower his frail friend into the steaming water. “How’s that feel on your aching bones?”

For the first time in two days, the lines of suffering that furrow the strategist’s features relax into a small measure of tranquility. “A marked improvement, to be sure.”

Gladio then reaches for a washcloth hanging on a hook near the faucet and pushes it into Ignis’ palm. “Be careful with that gash on your face. In my experience, getting soap in an open wound feels about as good as pouring salt in it.”

“Hm. Noted.”

Prompto wrings a second washrag anxiously, the desire to be helpful clearly at odds with his fear of getting in the way. “Um, can we get you anything else?”

The strategist runs his hand across his coarse jawline, wincing slightly as his fingers meet the cut that splits his lower lip. “Perhaps just a razor.”

A look passes between the big man and his blond counterpart, their thoughts reaching the same dismal conclusion. “You’d better let one of us handle the sharp edges for a while,” Gladio says. “I’ll tackle your face for you, if you’re that desperate for a shave.”

“Yeah,” Prompto agrees. “Let us help you, Iggy.”

The strategist’s features crumple into a scowl. “I don’t see why I can’t do it myself.”

_Because you can’t see anything, period,_  Gladio thinks, but bites his tongue. “Because it’ll give us something to do while we wait around for Sleeping Beauty to wake up from his nap,” he offers instead, and gestures to the sharpshooter. “Prompto, go find me a razor before I give his highness’ royal know-it-all something to really bitch about.”

Ignis’ scowl deepens, but he says nothing, and instead sinks farther down into the tub until the hot water is lapping around his shoulders. Prompto raids the nearest toiletry cabinet, returning to the big man’s side only when he’s located a bottle of shaving cream along with a questionably sharp blade. Gladio pours a generous amount of foam into his palm, then reaches for the strategist’s face—taking care not to gouge his grisly wound with his fingernails—and smirks. “Pucker up, gorgeous.”

But there is little humor to be found in this brief moment of indignity, because the exiled heir of Lucis was in a coma in the room adjacent to this one, oblivious that the world had changed irreversibly during his slumber and blissfully unaware that his bride had perished amidst the chaos. Scraping a few stubby hairs off a friend’s face was a minor inconvenience compared to the responsibility that lay ahead of whomever was ultimately tasked with delivering the devastating news to Noct; as he lathers the strategist’s jaw and drags the razor across one scarred cheek, Gladio woefully surmises there is only one man in this bathroom with enough tenacity of spirit to shoulder that terrible burden, and he’d need every ounce of strength to do so—even if he had to be force fed against his will.

He only gets partway through his task, however, before his hand slips—he hasn’t shaved his own face in years, much less anyone else’s—and the razor bites into his friend’s chin. Ignis flinches away, but he’s too late; the big man curses under his breath as he watches a drop of crimson blossom onto the strategist’s half-shaven jaw. “Shit.”

Prompto is already leaning over the tub, the rag in his hand moving quickly to stop the bleeding. “It’s fine,” Ignis says curtly, batting his assistance away and holding out a palm in the big man’s direction. “I’m sure I can manage the rest by feel—just hand me the razor, if you would.”

“No, no,” Gladio mutters, and reestablishes his grip over his friend's face. “I’m almost done—just sit still for another minute.”

The strategist grits his teeth in protest, but resigns himself to the inevitable and presses his lips together into a thin line. Gladio can feel Prompto’s anxious presence beside him, his nervous breath hot on his neck; he drives the younger man back with an elbow to his ribs, then returns his focus to Ignis’ bleeding jaw.

His confidence is already skating on thin ice, however, and his hand is trembling more than it was before; he only manages to get through two more passes with the razor before it snags on the strategist’s chiseled jawline yet again. “Goddamnit, Gladio,” Ignis snaps, recoiling angrily away to the end of the tub. “I told you to leave it.”

But the big man is already up, shoving the razor into a bewildered Prompto’s hand and swallowing the rage that is licking the insides of his throat. “ _You_ do this,” he shouts, then diverts his anger toward the figure floating in the water. “I’m not going to let myself be chewed out when all we were trying to do was help you.”

“I only asked you to draw me a bath,” Ignis counters. “I never asked to be treated like a bloody cripple.”

Had he been more in control of his turbulent emotions, Gladio might’ve picked up on the inkling of despair that laces the strategist’s voice; as it is, he can barely hear anything over the sound of his racing pulse screaming in his own ears. He stalks across the tiled floor and storms out of the bedroom, concluding on his way down the hall to the empty suite that Prompto was better at this whole nurturing thing, anyhow.

There’s little to distract him from his ire when he finally drops into a velvet sofa, so he returns almost immediately to his feet and paces the far wall. When treading a path nearly the depth of Pitioss Ruins does little to ease his agitation, he moves into the kitchenette and empties the last of the nigh inedible eggs Prompto scrambled from their skillet into a nearby wastebasket; as he dislodges the stubborn flakes from the frying pan with a dirty spatula, he takes a few deep breaths to quiet his roiling mind.

It’s only when he is no longer seeing red, and his heartbeat has returned to a more reasonable pace, that Gladio acknowledges to himself the real reason behind the strategist’s unusual display of impatience; comparatively speaking, a few minor nicks from a dull razor blade were drops in a bucket to the man who had survived having roughly half his face ripped clean off. But even without the use of his eyes, Ignis ought to have seen that his friends were merely looking out for one of their own—helping to pick up the pieces of his shattered existence in an effort to return some measure of normalcy and routine to their lives—and the big man isn’t quite sure whose pride is hurting more.

Half an hour goes by before Gladio catches a glimpse of blond hair strolling down the hall outside the suite; he darts over to the doorway and pokes his head out, flagging the marksman down. “Hey.”

“He’s fine,” Prompto says quickly, raising his palms to defend against any further berating. “I got his face all nice and shaved—he’s looking like a new man.”

Gladio punches him playfully in the shoulder to offset the panic in his friend’s eyes. “Took you long enough. After thirty minutes, it’s a wonder you even managed to figure out which end was the sharp one.”

Freckled features crumple into a frown. “My beard may not be as thick as yours, but I know how to get rid of a five o’clock shadow. We finished, like, twenty minutes ago.”

The hackles on Gladio’s neck stand up on end, and his pulse begins to pound once more. “Where is he now?”

“Still in the bath, I guess.”

“And you just left him there? By  _himself?_ ”

Prompto’s eyes widen at the sudden heat in the big man’s voice. “I set a couple towels out for him—he said he could take care of the rest on his own.”

“Open your eyes, Prompto!” Gladio bellows. “Iggy can’t even take a piss without help—how’s he supposed to climb out of a two-foot bathtub without knowing where to put his feet?”

He doesn’t give Prompto any time to argue before he is grabbing him by the collar and dragging him down the corridor with him to the room at the end of the hallway. Only after the two men struggle to fit through the threshold at the same time does he finally release him, dashing across the throw rug and toward the closed door of the bathroom; when he opens it, his worst fears are realized as his eyes lock on to the jumble of wet limbs sprawled out on the tiled floor.

It’s not the first time Gladio has seen his friend take a tumble, and the strategist is already pushing himself to his knees when the big man drops to his side. It happened the first time he tried getting out bed by himself mere hours after regaining consciousness, and again in an effort to quench his thirst when no one was looking; it would’ve happened a third time after a misfortunate encounter with a wayward ottoman, but luckily Prompto was at the right place and time to help break his fall.

For a man with wet hair plastered to his forehead and wearing nothing save for the pewter skull pendant around his neck, Ignis remains remarkably dignified as he climbs to his feet. “Thank you,” he says, steadying himself against Gladio’s elbow as he gropes for the nearest towel. “It seems the walls of the tub were much slicker than I had anticipated.”

The big man is less restrained than his injured counterpart. “What the hell were you thinking?” he yells. “It would’ve taken you two seconds to call for one of us when you were ready to get out.”

“I’m fine,” Ignis retorts, the civility in his voice quickly being replaced by irritation. “You needn’t come running every time I blow my damn nose.”

“You’re not fine, so don’t act like everything is fine because your too vain to ask for a little help. Just look at yourself.”

_“I can’t.”_  The ligaments surrounding the socket of the strategist’s right eye strain as he struggles to open it, and he finally manages to yank at the towel Prompto is holding out for him and cover his modesty. “I can’t look at myself, because I can’t look at _anything_. Or are you blind yourself?”

The tension in the air is as dense as the steam fogging up the mirrors of the bathroom, and the freckled marksman shifts uncomfortably between the two men. “C’mon, man,” he says to Gladio. “Maybe we should just give Ignis a minute—”

The big man cuts him off with a sharp glare, then takes a step toward the strategist and shoves a finger squarely against his wet sternum. “Listen to me,” he growls. “We’re helpless enough without you as it is, and I’m not about to let you crack your head open on the bathroom floor when your body is just starting to heal. Call one of us for help next time.”

The strategist has his face tilted vaguely in Gladio’s general direction; witnessing Ignis Scientia lose his everlasting composure was a sight even rarer than spotting an elusive Cactuar in the wild outskirts of Leide, but his expression is livid just the same. “I didn’t realize my own free will was under the jurisdiction of a committee. Or do I need your permission the next time I care to brush my teeth?”

It’s what the strategist is renown for, dishing out savage quips and pushing peoples’ buttons; Gladio would’ve been ashamed at himself for allowing Ignis to get under his skin so easily, if he was feeling anything other than pure, unadulterated rage in that moment. “Take that ego of yours and stick it where the sun don’t shine,” he snarls. “How’s  _that_  for permission?”

Then he’s pivoting on his heel and storming out of the humid bathroom; he can hear Promtpo’s footsteps squeak back and forth against the wet floor, evidently gauging his loyalty between the big man and the blind one, until the sharpshooter finally moves toward the threshold and calls out after him. “Gladio, wait—”

“Leave him,” he barks, wiping his damp fingers on his pant legs as he bursts out into the hall. “If he wants to choke on his own pride, who are we to stop him?”

The Pitioss path is about as useful at blowing off steam as his last pacing session—which is to say, not at all. But there’s no fitness center to be found in the secretary’s estate, no copious amounts of iron to pump that would help to soothe his wrath. So he gnashes his teeth together instead, marginally pleased that the marksman has trailed after him into the suite rather than indulge in the strategist’s thinly-veiled narcissism, although not enough to stop the taste of angry bile from flooding onto his tongue.

Gladio would’ve welcomed Prompto’s mournful silence in light of the alternative—the constant oscillation between incessant chatter and stifled sobs for two days straight was beginning to wear down on his last nerve—but the absence of conversation serves merely to heighten the suffocating ambience of the room, raindrops hitting the windows being the only sound coming from inside the suite at all. He stops at one of them and peers out at the increasingly ominous sky; it’s as black as his heart, the weather as fickle as the Hydraean when she unleashed her indiscriminate wrath upon both the corrupt and innocent alike, and as cold and wet as the dead civilian bodies he helped drag out of the sea with his own two hands.

When the haunting memory threatens to wrap itself around his throat and strangle him senseless, and he can see the expression of anguish on Prompto’s freckled face mirroring his own, Gladio finally breaks. “Spit it out.”

The marksman kicks a booted heel against the leg of the chair he is slumped in. “It’s nothing.”

“Spit it out before I make you.”

Prompto then gnaws on his lower lip, and Gladio waits for the tears he wholly expects to start pouring down his friend’s cheeks; the younger man surprises him, however, when he moves to fiddle with the studded bracelet on his right wrist instead. “I just think you’re being a little hard on Iggy, is all.”

“Why?” Gladio counters. “Because it’s easier to bring him a glass of water than it is to watch him eat shit every time he gets thirsty?”

“It’s not about that. You know it isn't.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we don’t exactly have a lot of time to sit around and act like each other’s personal therapists. Telling Noct what happened when he comes to is going to be hard enough without having a second head case on our hands to deal with.”

The fingers fidgeting with the bracelet tug more anxiously at it. “It just feels like you’re punishing him for something he can’t control. It’s, like, not even in his DNA to ask for help—you can’t force him to do it. The only thing you can do is be there for him when he does fall down.”

“Don’t you see? His life doesn’t belong to him anymore—none of ours does. And he’s only going to make it harder on everyone if he keeps hurting himself.” The vein in Gladio’s temple begins to throb, but he clamps down on his anger and blows out his breath. “Look—we’ve all got a job to do, and Ignis can’t do his effectively if he’s taking careless risks and slipping on banana peels. He of all people should recognize that.”

“What are you going to do, give him a sponge bath every day for the rest of his life?” Prompto finally drops his bracelet and offers a tired shrug. “If he wants to do something on his own terms, we should trust him. It’s not like he’s racing into battle with a Malboro without a hi-potion.”

“I can only hope not to run into any tentacled creatures for some time.”

The strategist’s clipped accent pierces the air; Gladio whips his head around nearly as quickly as Prompto, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes when he sees Ignis’ sopping wet figure hovering near the edge of the threshold.

“What happened to brushing your teeth?” he asks sarcastically.

“It seems the tube resting on the sink I thought was toothpaste was actually antibacterial ointment.” The strategist’s nose wrinkles as he clutches at the bath sheet wrapped around his waist. “Regardless, I only stumbled this far down the hall so that I might inquire into a clean set of clothes. I’d rather not toss a pair of trousers over my head, if I can help it.”

Gladio’s gaze shifts to Prompto, but the sharpshooter is already on his feet. “I’ll dig up something for you,” he says, and disappears into the corridor.

Ignis runs his hand along the doorframe, feeling the ground in front of him with his feet as he steps tentatively into the room. “You needn’t worry—I’ll be on my way soon enough and let you two get back to analyzing my inner psyche.”

This time, Gladio does roll his eyes, although this irritable gesture is lost on his blind friend. “Cut us some slack, will you? We’ve got bigger fish to fry with without having to dance around your feelings.”

“My feelings in the matter are irrelevant. This is logistics we’re talking about.”

The icy air surrounding the strategist is palpable, and a twinge of pain tightens around Gladio’s heart as he watches his friend lower himself dejectedly into a nearby chair. “Give it some time, man—it’s too early to know what you’re sight is going to end up like. You’d be less of a burden on everyone if you just sucked up your pride, at least for the time being.”

The lines on Ignis’ forehead furrow, and he drops his voice to nearly a whisper. “I should like to reach a point where I’m not a burden on anyone, period.”

It’s an understandable fear, especially among those who have devoted their life to a higher calling; the idea of being so weak as to require defaulting on the assistance of others leaves a bad taste in Gladio’s own mouth. But the big man isn’t in the habit of tiptoeing around the proverbial Sylleblossoms, and there was a more pressing issue in need of addressing besides, so he sets his jaw in preparation of the next difficult conversation. “Speaking of burdens,” he says grimly, “one of us is going to have to break the hard news to Noct when he wakes up.”

A small fracture appears in the strategist’s aloof facade, and Gladio can see the faintest hint of sorrow lacing his features. “I have admittedly given the notion some thought.”

“What’s the plan, then? We gonna tag-team him, or…?”

The fractures deepen, his melancholy growing more obvious as his eyes move rapidly beneath closed eyelids. “That’s not necessary. I’ll do it myself.”

Gladio frowns as he studies the planes of his friend’s scarred face. “You don’t have to do it alone. There’s no reason me or Prompto can’t be there with you.”

“Prompto has a good heart, but I foresee his own grief getting the better of him before he could even eke out a single word.” The strategist runs a hand through his damp hair and heaves a sigh. “As for you—don’t take this the wrong way, but your sensitivity meter could use some calibrating.”

It’s why the dynamic between the Crownsguard had worked so well in the past; Prompto was the heart and soul of the Brotherhood, his kind and gentle nature a breath of fresh air in a sea of masculinity, while Gladio was the shield and protector, ready and willing to exchange his life for one of his own at a moment’s notice and without hesitation. Ignis was somewhere between the two, amiable to the point of taking genuine pride in the culinary masterpieces he created specifically with his friends in mind, but with enough steel in his backbone to turn around and slit an enemy’s throat with the very same knife he used to dice his carrots. 

How their bonds would fare going forward remained to be seen, and a humorless laugh escapes through Gladio’s clenched teeth. “That’s probably true.”

The sound of hesitant footsteps entering the suite draw the big man’s attention, and he watches as Prompto sets a pair of folded slacks and a tunic on the coffee table in front of Ignis. “I found your purple shirt,” he says, his voice wavering slightly. “You know—the one with the Coeurl print. Thought maybe you’d want to wear something else besides pajamas for a change.”

The momentary fractures in the strategist’s veneer seal themselves, and he offers as genial an expression as he can muster. “You have my thanks.”

The marksman’s lower lip trembles slightly, and he nods once before turning back toward the door. “I, um—I’m just gonna go hang out with Noct, I guess. Maybe playing some King’s Knight in his ear will wake him up faster.”

“Prompto.”

The freckled man glances down at the fingers Ignis suddenly has clutched around his hand. “What’s up?”

The strategist’s left eye was likely a lost cause, Gladio concedes, but he can see his friend struggling to open the eyelid of his right one. After a moment, Ignis gives up his futile effort, his shoulders slumping forward with the same sense of despair that plagues them all. “There is a rather troubling task that lies ahead of me I’m going to need to prepare myself for,” he says quietly, his fingers tightening around Prompto’s wrist. “Would you be so kind as to scramble a few eggs for me?”


End file.
